


The Time For Flight

by ProphetChuckStone



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Steampunk, Art welcome, Dunken Antics, Free for Debate, Genderbending, I have done as much research as i can but can't make promises to accuracy, Non beta read, POV First Person, Short Story, Slight OOC, Slight tech talk, Steampunk, Zeppelin - Freeform, crew - Freeform, hope you like it, mechanic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-19
Updated: 2013-09-19
Packaged: 2017-12-27 01:41:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/972818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProphetChuckStone/pseuds/ProphetChuckStone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a world ravaged by the industrial revolution, a Crew of miscreants will follow the family business to save people from the gluttony of modern living and hunt for a better way of life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Time For Flight

Comfortable, moth-eaten velvet armchairs have been replaced with the cracked leather seats of the Ghost Rolls. The glass has been tanned by time and its view rarely taken. A bleak landscape void of tumbling hills surrounds, and even the sombre grey sky above does nothing to quell my unbidden woes. Everything here is dead. The grass is dead. The trees are dead. The animals are dead. Even the people are dead inside, forcing their charade of life through unyielding lips and eyes. You can see it when you catch them by surprise. They will be looking into the distance, blissfully dead to the world, and then you move or make some noise, waking them, and for the briefest of moments you can see what they truly are before the shutters come tumbling down, the glint is injected into their eyes, their jaw is hooked outwards to bare such ideas as a grimace, finally the eyebrows are ironed out and the mask is set. Willingly disposed of, the moment you turn your head. They care not for you, only that you leave them in peace long enough to die happily once more. However, some make an active effort to gorge themselves on substances that they believe may return some spark to life, neglecting to realize the truth: that they are simply pushing themselves closer to the brink. Every bitter morsel of chocolate strains against the biting bands of corsetry, constricting until breathing is an impossibility. Each sweet drop of fortified port softening the mind into an incomprehensible pulp, that meanders along the verge of etiquette before sinking into the mire of social shame. Ecstatic to finally return to the land of the living and a life of lies, I lean back and allow the car to carry me far away.

 

I loathe the estates others called my ‘home’. To me the sky was home and I had been away for far too long. Gazing down into the ice soft skies hovering below the airship's hull, I barely notice the insistent footsteps along the metal gang plank until a soft cough startles me from my reverie.  
“How’s you?” It's an instinctual question that slips from my tongue with an easy grace; there's only one person that instils this sense of security in me and when I turn, it's those eyes that find my own.  
“It’s not fixed yet?” The harsh inquisition and blatant ignorance of my own question spur me back into action. I lower my eyes and raise my spanner once more to the offending bolt, murmuring something about “more rust than anticipated” and “10 more minutes.” I dare to imagine that the temperature around my left shoulder has risen half a degree, but my delusion fades after a moment with the soft groaning of supporting aluminium beams. He’s gone and there’s work to do; the ship won’t fix itself.

About five years ago the coal running the machinery caused so much pollution in the cities it ran, that it soon became impossible for a citizen to leave their house without a gas mask. Since then, the race for alternate energy was on, and I had won. My masks had been the first to be mass produced and, of course I knew the irony of it, but the manufacturing materials used produced more vicious gasses than the previous hand fashioned masks. However, they worked better and lasted longer than all other designs so that evened it out in my mind. I was working toward the future which, to me, was taking far too long to arrive. My revolutionary designs were still being shunned by major corporations, who failed to grasp the foreign concept of using the sun for energy, but that didn’t matter; I had The Duchess now and could prove them wrong – as long as I played my part.  
The Duchess may not have been the most aesthetically pleasing ship but she was a mechanical goddess. My designs had been flawless – the sleek sides perfectly aerodynamic, the crisp fins meticulously formed for feather light handling, the engines revolutionary in both power and weight. Her glossy black panel sides absorbed the suns heat, warming the helium pods and drawing her further upwards, reducing the risk of explosion that the other airships possessed, and allowing them a higher weight capacity, and the cherry on top? They produced power! The heat absorbed was transferred into a steady flow of electrical energy that was stored in large batteries on the lower decks. The ship was a revolution in the making. It had taken me years of dedication and devotion to launch the plans and now here I am chief engineer of my baby, my continued deceit irrelevant. If anybody knew I was a girl... I shudder at the thought, it was definitely best if no one knew. I was saving the world and that's all that mattered.

The bolt finally relinquishes its hold and I inhale for a sigh of relief, instantly coughing back bitter tears. I can feel the pollution dripping down my throat, the viscous gas burning as I try not to breathe. I was getting sloppy: I used to be able to change my gas filters within moments but now, as the hinges were corroding, it was taking longer and longer. I really needed to finish my newest design because the rubbers on this hunk of metal, combined with its obscene weight, were beginning to really grate on my nerves, not to mention my lungs. I can’t believe that somebody stole my new mask at the last port. Its initial loss had been devastating, my real name had been burnt into the leather and if anyone made the connection... Well, enough time had passed now that somebody would have said something if a crew member had found it, so it was either in the hands of some tech rat on the street or had been ripped to shreds by the animals in the smog. Either way, I'm probably in the clear, even if its loss causes me great internal discomfort.  
I've only been a part of this crew for a few months and yet it seems like so much longer, until I make a rookie mistake like forgetting to change my filters, and then it feels like my first day all over again. But I know that what I’m doing is right. My body rejoices every time we enter the air, my sky legs trump those of the rest of the crew: I know exactly what is about to happen before it does and can easily prepare for it, to the point that Sam, the crew’s navigator and Navi for short, has begun to employ me to move his funny compass things around the maps after he ruined his best ones during the last storm. The klutz was always spilling ink over them but somehow he always knew his way, he had successful guided us through enemy fire, thunderstorms and mountain ranges, it was just tracking our movements out on paper that he found difficult. Though nobody knew for certain, we joked that he had been born on a boat and had never fully managed to settle his sea legs. Breaking from my quiet musings, I heave open the solid steel hatch and clamber though the porthole into the dark ship’s stomach. Sliding along the rough hewn corridors, I am forced to duck every few feet to avoid cracking my head on the protruding support beams clasping the ship together. Skirting past a large hatch in the ceiling I feel warm floods of heat bellowing towards my skin and engulfing me. The comforting sensations are accompanied by the sounds of gentle stroking as a skinny figure comes into view dressed in the crew’s uniform of a loose white shirt with simple brown pocketed trousers. Sensing my presence the figure stills its brushing and approaches the conspicuous hole and covers it quickly before returning to his job of maintaining the hot air bladders. Passing by quickly, I overhear the twins Michael and Lucifer hurling into the communal toilets;  
“Mine’s a better colour than yours is,”  
“Well that may be M, but have you seen the purple lumps in mine!”  
“How you been eating your pillow again? You do know that’s cheating right? Anyway, I have you beat on quantity, three bowls already!”  
Holding down on my stomach and biting my tongue hard, the urge to puke disperses slowly, I still have to find Balthazar.

Breaking though the final hatch, I find Gabriel leaning against the rudder parallel to the one I had just been working on. His eyes are downcast and unfocused, I gather his attention with a gently cough before going over to examine his handiwork. At the recognition of his mentor, Gabriel begins to regale me with Balthazar’s recent exploit in which he challenged Gabriel to a battle of wits, and was now in hiding to avoid facing his defeat. Without pause I lead Gabriel though the cramped copper corridors and into the main control room. In contrast with the rest of the ship, which was dark and damp, this main room was fitted with a double height ceiling with full length windows on three sides. In the centre, a wide bank of switches, gears and knobs controlled the ships progress through the air, and He stood watch. Gazing around the room I notice Bobby, the communications manager, pouring over his ledgers and radio, concentration filling his stern face. Gabriel’s continued prattle is cut out with a quick grimace from me. Addressing the room at large I explain the work we had completed, glancing frequently between the stoic back pacing the helm and the glassy orbs hovering at the desk. Slowly my voice fades into the roar of the engines as He fiddles with the readjusted joists, a slight nod the only recognition of their improvement. Slowly the wry man extricates himself from his books and beckons the engineers to approach; “You two idjits go get dinner, wash those ugly mugs of yours and sleep. I have planned our landing for precisely 5.36am and if you are not ready by then, so help me I will rip you limb from limb. We are on a tight schedule now, be off with ya.”

I instinctively follow the tantalizing smells down corridors, through hatches and out into the ships basement level, also known as Benny Land. So close to the smell's source, I can no longer reign in my hunger and allow my rumbling stomach a say on the matter; Gabriel is similarly vocal behind me. A bellowing laugh drowns our unkempt protests and is borne upon the chassis of the enigmatic Benny, King of the kitchen.  
“What's good chief?” I call into the kitchen, though there is no doubt behind the scent’s engulfing my senses.  
“Not much, just a steak and kidney soft crust with roasties, peas and carrots. We ran out of palatable food somewhere over Prague so we better restock soon, else you're gonna be stuck with beans on toast and Yorkshires.”  
It’s an obvious threat but Gabriel can’t help himself, “You’ll make Yorkshires?”  
“I'm not feeding you crap like that until I have no other options Gabriel, so don't you sound so fucking gleeful about it.” At this, Gabriel dejectedly sinks into the chair at his feet and his head falls into his hands; after a moment his eyes appear between his bony fingers, lit with a spark of insanity. I knew that look.  
“I don't care how amazing chief's Yorkshire puddings are, if I discover that you have sabotaged my ship in any way to stop us porting later, I will hang you off the bow with Lucifer’s socks stuffed in your mouth to keep you quiet.” Gabriel's eyes smoulder through his now laced fingertips, Lucifer's socks were lethal due to the fact that he only owned one pair, and nobody knew how long it had been since their last wash. Fortunately, he had been banned from removing his shoes on board the ship since the last time; there were still crevices that reeked of rotting cheese. Gabriel groaned from his corner and I took my usual central seat. I could tell that he hadn't given up on his plans, and understandably, even I was considering sabotage at this point. Chief's Yorkshire puddings were the reason he was onboard, despite his blatant disregard for crew weight limits, so in accordance, he was not allowed an assistant to ease his load. Nobody could claim malnutrition on The Duchess; Benny served only the best and the freshest food available, with plenty of vegetables and red meat to keep us all going. We have no idea how he manages to barter such treasures on his meagre food budget, but never ones to look a gift horse in the mouth, no one probed him and we were all rewarded with feasts fit for Royalty. Benny had once catered for Queen Victoria - his luxurious beef marrow on toast her daily sin - until he threw in the towel one day and ran away to taste the world with us. Chief chose that moment to squeeze and jiggle into the canteen, burdened with a tray boasting steaming plates, overflowing gravy boats and a large silver tankard of today's specialty brew: cinnamon cider.  
"So when's the next dock then? By Gabriel's whining I gather it’s sometime soon. No Yorkshire's then, you guys are getting fat enough as it is," Benny prods my side experimentally, connecting with the soft padding that muffled the feminine void between my tiny waist and ample hips. "Hmm... I'm definitely cutting you back," he declared, removing the gravy boat from my reach as I released a pitiful whimper that made Gabriel shoot me a sadistic grin, "serves you right for threatening me!"  
"I don't know what you’re so smug about; you’re on a diet too! All you do is tighten a few bloody bolts. Now, if you start actually doing something of worth I may reconsider and give you some of my liquid gold, but until then, it’s all mine." Gabriel mirrors my previous whimper and I stick my tongue out at him before tucking into the piles of glorious food towering in front of me. We sit in companionable silence for several moments, neither of us able to form more than grunts of approval, until Benny’s remaining presence reminded me of his unanswered question.  
“Oh, sorry Chief, Bobby has booked a touchdown for around 5.36 a.m. so we have about...” I consult the pocket watch tucked inside my muddy brown slacks, “3 hours and 27 minutes, give or take.”  
“Well, in that case I’ll just take this back then,” Benny reaches over and snatches the tankard from Gabriel’s greedy grip. “We don’t want anyone to fall off the rails, again.”  
“Are we seriously still on that? It was one time!”  
“And how many of my spanners did you drag over with you,” I shoot, Gabriel shut up quickly and returned to his feasting with a sullen expression, a comment of “we weren’t even in the air” remaining his last meagre retort. It had been Gabriel’s first night aboard the ship and he had obviously been trying to forget something, what it was we never did discover, but it must have been bad. He had all but begged us to take him away with us. My money was on a disgruntled wife but Bobby swore blind he was running from the sharks, either way, he was one of us now. Nobody questioned the past here, for fear their own would be brought up for inquisition.  
“I’ll just brew you some tea then,” Benny sighs and vanishes, wow, he really could move quickly for a man of his size. My stomach lobbies its complaint at my inactive state and I return to the mission at hand: filling it. The rest of the meal passed quietly, with only the sounds of scraping cutlery and happy munching to tell the passage of time. Once he had finished stuffing his face, Gabriel shuffled off in the direction of his cabin with me following shortly behind.

My cabin was located on the main deck, past the storage rooms and squeezed between the engines. As a result, it was the smallest on the ship at only 5ft by 7ft in area, but I wouldn’t have swapped it for any other, not even the lavish captain’s quarters. Its close proximity to the giant motors and vents kept it constantly balmy, so, whilst the other crew members froze, I slept comfortably under a single sheet. Taking advantage of this constant heat, I strip off my bulky tan leather jacket and threw it over to fall on the simple mattress, spread over a large chest of drawers. Carefully manoeuvring though the cramped space, I extricate a roll of battered blueprints from where they were wedged within the ceiling beams, and recover a lead stub from my pocket. Tenderly, I unravel them over the sturdy easel crammed in the corner, ironing out the plans with a single splayed hand, before pencilling in the alterations Gabriel and I had completed that day. To be honest, it wasn’t going too badly, sure the steering jousts kept seizing up and the bolts were already rusting, but that was just to be expected, it was an easy fix that could be completed when we docked in a few hours. To be truthful, I had expected the whole thing to fall apart within the first five minutes of being in the air, the fact that we hadn’t crashed yet was a dream come true and the fact that we were producing more power than they could store? Well, that was just a miracle. Refastening the papers together, I unconsciously click my back relishing in the soft pops of my spine, before repositioning my instruments in their appropriate places, and once completed, I sink into the thin mattress at knee level. Staring into the rafters, I watch the light playing through the porthole and let my mind drift back to Him. The fact that I loved him was irrelevant, he was loyal to a fault, that fault being that he would turn me in to the authorities if he knew who I really was. Even so, I couldn’t help but allow the tantalising daydreams that plagued my mind daily to fade me into an unconscious state, bursting with beautiful images of traversing the world side by side with their misfit family of runaways. Reluctantly, I was dragged back to reality by a harsh siren signalling the initiating the pandemonium of landing The Duchess. Carefully I unfold myself from the sweat sticky sheet ensnaring me and headed out, snatching my jacket off the floor on the way and straightening out the itchy, sleep-lopsided padding under my shirt.

The ship was frantic with noise, even as far from the helm as I was, the orders echoing through corridors were impossible to ignore. Slipping back into my role easily, I commence the laborious tasks monitoring engines, lubricating steering joists and securing payloads before I can finally begin to guide the ship. I had devised a revolutionary new communications system for transferring proximity alerts to the captain. A series of cogs and levers adorned the underside of the gangway, crouching down, I began to manipulate them knowing that these actions would initiate the appropriate responses from the control room where lights would begin to flash with my warnings. The landing went relatively smoothly considering the complexity and size of The Duchess, well it did, until Gabriel punctured a hole in one of the gasbags causing the ship to fall sideways heavily and shudder into the earth prematurely.  
Distantly, I heard the twins clamour to the ground the moment they crashed, kissing the ground at their feet, happy to be returned safely to solid footing. Nobody had asked them why they joined the crew even though they both seemed to loathe every moment spent in the air. However, they did their jobs gaily and were always willing to protect their crew no matter the cost to themselves, so their privacy was kept and nobody commented on their constant need to survey and continue moving. They disappeared shortly after disembarking to secure the area and regain their bearings. Benny followed not long after, noisily extricating himself from the ships’ bowels in hunt of new spices and intuitive local recipes. Out of habit, I wandered down to the hull, hastily conveying Gabriel’s omitted apologies to Bobby, before proceeding cautiously to explain the extent of the damage to His withered grey stare. As soon as I had finished, those pure eyes fluttered closed momentarily weary with sleep; I was dismissed. I left silently, pausing slightly to listen to the soft hum of Bobby’s radio as he called in their current location and status to the eye in the sky and hear the gentle thud that signified His cabin door closing. I felt instantly better that he was at least going to attempt rest now that the crew was safe. I considered bringing him a mug of herbal tea to soothe his insomnia, but immediately chuffed; I was thinking like a girl again and that could get me killed. He had survived without me and would do so again.  
Even though the ship had finally landed and most of the crew dispersed, there was still work to be done. I spent the next few hours repairing broken walk-plank struts, lubricating rods and hydraulic presses, and completing basic checks on the panel skins with Balthazar after his recent blunder. The methodical work calmed me, allowing my hands to work deftly whilst my mind wanders idly through the ship, considering how a woman’s touch could so easily improve the lives of all the men aboard. Soon my work was complete; the rusted bolts had been replaced with more tempered ones and solid housings had been created for the constantly seizing steering jousts. Revelling in the uncommon stillness of the ship, I take advantage of the free time and return to my cabin, intent on finishing the gasmask waiting on my desk even if it was not required in the tiny rural towns in the middle of Africa we were touring that day. I found myself able to peaceably finish my masterpiece to the sound of birds twittering outside my cabin window and was shocked to discover that it was past midday upon its completion. Not soon after I lay back for a kip, the wafts of raw gunpowder and fresh cardamom infuse their way through the ship to my nostrils, alerting me to the boys return and impending obligations to move out and trade.

Wreckage surrounds them. The remnants of a disaster long forgotten are everywhere. But the people thrive and within the confines of this wasteland, nature flourishes. The town may have been decimated but it’s almost as if the people haven’t been informed of this simple fact. They stride through the market places; wooden beams that once supported roofs now subside with baskets of spices. Boulders that were once walls have tumbled into children’s forts. And, though no wall stands higher than a couple of feet, every boundary is clearly kept and doorways are adhered to. Though ‘houses’ are no more than crumbling foundations, each room’s purpose is clear: blankets mark out sleeping quarters, with cooking utensils laid out and arrangements of shaped stone signifying a place for the daily meal. But no one glances into the home of another, as if the imaginary walls still hold sanctuary. These people are living in a town remembered. In the last few months we have visited many towns like this, where this is a home to the people, no matter what its state of decomposition. To these people clinging to life, this will be their home until they die.  
Ahead of the group an age softened man moves gracefully through crowds of would-be bystanders. His progress is slow and calculated; each movement is precisely planned in a moment and executed to such precision that he barely touches another in the swift current that attempts to engulf him. Approaching a hectic stall he draws the manic curator’s attention with swift arm gesticulations and rough guttural language. The curator responds in kind and the pair converse nonsensically for several frantic moments, bartering over a soft floury loaf with singed edges. The sweat flowing down the curator’s ample chest is flung by wild movement and lands squarely on the bread and the scene freezes as realization dawns upon her. Her effort for negotiation now futile, the loaf is released for a tiny bronze coin to the man’s smug grimace. With the same predetermined grace, he travels back through the crowd to collapse lazily on a hard mat at the market’s edge. He senses my gaze and calls me over by the name of stranger and willingly I oblige.  
Lacking the man’s finesse, I fight the flow of people crushing past to their destination. My progression is slow but the steady gaze of the man anchors me and shows the invisible path of least resistance, and soon I stand before him. Slowly, without dropping his eyes from mine he draws a small black lacquer box from its invisible resting place and opens the lid. It shimmers in the sun. After a few moments I realize why. It is filled to the brim with tangles of jewellery. Still holding my sight, the man gently extrudes a thick leather wrist band from the tangle and brandishes it in my face, no questions; he knew that it was exactly what I needed, even if I didn't. I clasp it instinctively and carefully inspect the adorning copper instrument; it was a fronted pocket watch with large white hands on a plain black face with an embedded glass vial. Shock freezes my bones as I realize what it is: a miniature altimeter. I had been searching for a portable one for so long; none of my own designs were accurate enough for ship use and personal carrying. The man, now suddenly impatient with my gaping, clasps his hand over the instrument, draws the band from my grip and holds it to his eye, peeping though his fingers. After a moment the object is returned to my startled hands. Cautiously I mirror the man’s movements, and almost drop it in shock – tiny dots have appeared on the previously plain face! The man motions for me to glance again; this time I am prepared and fight the instinct to flinch away. My efforts are rewarded with a vision of the night’s sky, moon and stars stable in their constellations with the softly sweeping hands glowing the time through the penetrating darkness of my clasped fingers. Slowly I return my attention to the silent man before me, his eyes still gaze towards me but now his fingers glide along a procession of beads laid across his reed mat, searching out the perfect gem for the delicate necklace strands that appeared woven through his other hand. Although no words have been conveyed, I know my object’s price and rummage my personage for the correct tender. Once located, I drop the coins upon the mat letting each fall with a soft thud. As the last coin settles in its new home the man's shoulders relax and I know my money is correct. The man’s intelligent stare appears to hold some knowledge I feel myself to have missed, although our transaction has been completed I am ill inclined to proceed on. The graceful hands consume my attention once more, the intricacies of his work are inhuman... and suddenly I know what secret lies within his eyes. Smiling softly to myself I move to reclaim my crew, leaving the blind man to his thriving business; full of life and void of pity.

I find the boys in the local tavern; piled onto the bar stools and already clouded by the mists of drink. Trading must have gone well if they were already gripping each other tightly like brothers; only bitter rum and time could induce this level of affection. Approaching the bar I notice the usual configuration of suspects; Michael furthest to the right partially hidden in a smoky fog with his back to the wall; Lucifer just to his left staring into the peeling mirror behind the bar, eyes darting; Gabriel and Balthazar arm-wrestling jovially in the middle, all the while trying to catch the wench’s eye; and Him, one seat away from his crew leaning heavily into his usual dry scotch tumbler, looking for all the world as if he was considering drowning himself in its amber depths. I make my way to the bar and sink carefully onto the empty stool, daring Him to comment, there was nowhere else for me to sit after all, but his drink has consumed his attention and my presence goes unnoticed. But he was the only one, the boys greeted me with their usually drunken gusto, Gabriel falling off his seat in the process will the others guffawed. Seeing my late arrival the wench approached, praying I would be the one to bring some semblance of order to the motley crew disrupting her bar, but to her dismay I merely bid her retrieve a double Jameson’s on the rocks. I sat in amiable silence with Him whilst the boys regain their drunken arguments until I finally snapped.  
“You gonna drink it or drown yourself?”  
Those broken eyes find my face and in one perfect sweep of spite, he downs the tumbler. We stay as still and silent as statues; a light golden haze smoothes his irises and the initially clenched jaw eases itself into a gentler set. I down my whiskey slowly; keeping my eyes locked to his, and silently rest the empty glass back upon the sticky bar top. Immediately our drinks are replenished and I fist over a pile of local currency, if we were going to talk, as was required, the booze would need to flow thick and fast and, sensing the delicacy of her patron’s predicament, the wench was more than happy to oblige. As the night passed and the profit vanished, conversation turned to the ship’s future... What improvements needed to be made? How could they improve the profit margin? Did they have enough evidence to prove The Duchess’s worth on an industrial scale?  
As the evening progressed, the crew’s blatant splurging began to gain the unbidden attention of the tavern’s other patrons and soon enough they were roped into a bar-wide game of poker, which only the twins voided. Soon the money flowed faster than the booze, with Balthazar losing his mind and wage on my carefully crafted double bluff, which was subsequently claimed by His perfect hand. To the local people’s disgust, the crew claimed all their takings and forced them each to deal out, gaining a free drink for their gallant attempt. Around midnight the wench was dismissed from her post by the chivalrous barkeep, intent on keeping the game afloat by pooling his liquor into the pot. After several drunken, but no less successful, rounds the conversation turned to the crew’s recent travels and the Empire’s hottest topic: the Prince’s missing bride-to-be.

The Prince had been diagnosed with acute Alzheimer’s; leading to partial blindness that, combined with the stress of oncoming power, had sent him falling into a pit of depression and self pity. With the king’s declining health and lack of heir the plea had gone out to the aristocracy; a wife was required and he was willing to pay handsomely. Unfortunately, the pollution in cities had claimed the lives of most of England’s fair maidens, leaving only the strongest to survive, which would have been fine if only they didn’t all appear to be dogs. With the dwindling pool of resources a ball was held, to which all of the upper-class was also invited and a bride chosen, no questions asked. She was removed from her father’s estates immediately and transferred to her new quarters in Balmoral prior to the wedding, without an audience with her fiancée. During her time there she became acquainted with the antiquated aristocracy, learnt to pass days needle pointing and lounging around in artfully decaying armchairs. But a week before the wedding she vanished into the foggy moors with nary a world to her whereabouts, and now the whole Empire was up in arms and on a manhunt for their missing Princess-to-be.

“Well, no news is good news; the reward for her safe return has been raised to £1000, though all the clues have dried up. We believe that he may be considering other options for an heir, there are certain rumours circulating that one of his fleet commanders or extended family may have been selected. But he will only take command once both the Prince and Queen have passed on, God bless their souls.” Lucifer informed the room at large from his hazy corner. Was it just my imagination or was he watching her? Choosing that moment to strike, He threw down yet another winning hand, and with a flood of groans heralding the demise of the other players, Him and I were left to battle for the name of champion. Just as the game reached another round of stalemates, a voluptuous young girl approached their table, leaning across the wood towards Him, displaying her wares. Ignoring her persistent pleas for attention he brushes her off as he continues with his now blatant bluff. Refusing her rejection the girl turns her chest to me; I blush at the attention but return to my cards and shrug her off shamelessly. Tired of striking out, the girl moves on to Balthazar and Gabriel, the drunken duo, who grace her presence by grabbing an arse cheek each. War ensues with the twins pairing up with the boys with gentle punches quickly festering into flung tables and shattered bottles with liquor coating the masses.  
Four split lips, two broken noses, a fractured arm and a concussion later, the whole crew is flung surreptitiously out onto the cobbled street in a drunken mess. Vigilantly I collect my boys up off the floor and arrange them into some semblance of order; the reasonably sober Michael and Lucifer marking the wings with Gabriel and Balthazar wedged between, alternating between loathing and adoration towards each other. Cautiously, I approach His crumpled form and hoist him into a relatively upright position with my arm cradled around his waist and his head on my shoulder, allowing me to guide him safely across the rickety brick roads. As the frigid air begins to clear their senses the crew finds itself huddling closer together, falling back into an uneven step He grabs Lucifer’s waist as well, with the pretence of pointing out the hulking mass on the horizon that signified The Duchess. On reaching our destination, the boys once again disperse, with Gabriel crawling to his cabin next to the kitchen, the twins stalking off to their hidden rooms, Balthazar clambering into the rafters but He just slides down the nearest wall. I couldn’t leave him. Remotely, I guides him through the ship, into the command centre and through to his quarters. By this time he was merely dead weight having lost consciousness somewhere down the armoury corridors, I lower him onto the thick mattress and cocoon him in the piles of duvets, seemingly untouched. He looked peaceful for once, so, instead of waking him, I place my gift on the bedside table for him to find the next morning.

Over brunch the next day – no one had woken in time for a reasonable breakfast – the topic of last night’s misadventures was broached; Balthazar’s shiner standing proudly to attention. To my astonishment they could all remember! The only unsolved mystery was the origin of His new wrist adornment; smiling softly into my eggs I regale how he won it in a game of poker off a simple business man while they were fighting.  
“His poker face was magnificent.”

 

There could be nothing in this world more stunningly disturbing than the sight that currently bombards my shattered retinas: bloodshot and throwing every atom into sharp relief. Before me lies a vision of burning clouds and ice soft skies, each drop of moisture glowing from within, droplets sparking into flame. Seas of undulating fire surround the ship, licking at its sides, threatening to scorch everything within its grasp. The balmy sky quenches its thirst and momentarily the fire is doused, leaving in its wake a portal view into the devilishly dark world below, festering with monstrous creatures, only fathomable in a murderer's worst nightmare, before being once again engulfed by the all-consuming blaze.  
Drawn to the back of the ship I am sucked into a new world. Although clouds still lick at the sky they no longer do so with such lustre, their last embers of anger fading into the void black night, soothing into ominous swirling mists through which the imagined fear runs wildly to its doom.  
Movement in my peripherals causes my rotation. Beside us, I view another passage vessel, spewing garish grey smog. I take a mental image, feeling a sense of detachment; they are on their way to the fiery depths below. I blink and they have disappeared out of sight; I stop caring.  
Fiery red clouds engorge before being quenched into a subtle amber glow, beating the fires into their usual soft submission and fading into the mute pastels of a maturing sunrise. The black landmass of destination appears through the swirl on the horizon. A nugget of despair cuddles to my insides – did I really think I could escape? 

The sound of music whirls and twirls around the ship as the boys celebrate our highest trip profit to date, The Duchess has just finished paying for her production and now our endeavour is purely in the black. Offers from major corporations have begun to flood in, begging for the plans to produce fleets of my baby. The echoes boom into the new day as a hatch door is expertly manipulated. Below, the clouds drift open lazily to display my father’s old estates; the land has been scorched by the recent drought causing bush fires that have decimated the ground. The old Rolls lies upturned in a ditch, a ghost of its former glory. From up here it looks as if the people finally achieved their wish, they have been relinquished from their lie of life and I let a single tear escape to mourn the lifeless land below. 

That’s where I belong, down there, in the land of the dead. My legacy is now secure and I have no purpose to remain entangled in this sham life. This misfit family of rogues and vagabonds don’t need me, and this world is a machine: machines never come with extra parts; I was once required, but now I have served my purpose and am simply a waste of resource. Abusing my natural balance I hoist myself over the edge of the railings, the scorched land below flowing past in oceans of dust. Perched on the edge, I can feel the adrenaline pumping through my veins. It wouldn’t be falling; I would fly. The thought spurs a feeling of unfurling wings at my back. To truly fly would be wondrous. I could let the lies fall away and for the minute it would take me to drop - I could be pure and clean once more. I release my hands from the rails and begin to unbuckle my perfected gas mask, my last gift to this world, and prepare for my final flight. Inhaling a final breath I extricate myself from the mask and attach it the rails where it will be easily seen, and straighten slightly, stretching my imagined wings until a warm pressure between my shoulder blades wipes ideas wings from my mind and I feel anchored once more. His hand remains soft but stationary on my back; I stiffen, not allowing myself the luxury of leaning back into the gentle heat ebbing out into the cool bathe of new light. My long absent mask appears before my eyes, I can see now how futile my removal attempts had been.

“Stay”


End file.
